


It's Just An Empty Cup

by rickyisms



Series: it all started with 1 (one) twitter DM [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Body Worship, Emotions and Stuff, Epilogues, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Stanley Cup Finals, fuck the boston bruins, kind of, kit purrson loves connor whisk, like incredibly INCREDIBLY light reference to disordered eating, like kent's too hard on himself about his diet plan, not in a particularly sexy way, reference to pixar's "Cars"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24090727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rickyisms/pseuds/rickyisms
Summary: The Aces don't win the cup in 2017. It hurts, Kent hurts, he's tired and he feels like he doesn't deserve the things he has, including an NCAA champion boyfriend waiting for him at home______A sort of epilogue, sort of one shot stemming off of "The Dream of Having No Room"I think it works on its own but I'd recommend reading the original fic first.
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson/Connor "Whiskey" Whisk
Series: it all started with 1 (one) twitter DM [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738009
Comments: 23
Kudos: 223





	It's Just An Empty Cup

**Author's Note:**

> yes the title is from Cars, yes that is brought up in the fic.

It would have been easier if they lost last week, in the Western conference final. Kent thinks so at least. It would have taken some of the sting out of it. They would have hung their heads for a couple of hours, gone to a bar and commiserated, gone over the “what ifs” and the “maybe next years,” and then gone home to their families. 

Instead, they had forced a game seven against Vancouver, they’d left it all out on the ice. They’d celebrated and planned and plotted. And then they’d been curb stomped by Boston in five. They’re the western conference champions, but they don’t give you banners for that unless you’re the predators and no one wants to be the predators. 

If you lose the Western conference final, you don’t have to watch the team that beat you skate the Stanley cup down the ice, you don’t have to clear off and watch them celly from the locker room. You don’t have to think about how close you’d come, don’t have to watch someone else achieve your dream and you don’t have to drive to the airport in a city celebrating your defeat. 

He texts Whiskey after every game, every time he gets on a plane and every time they land. He doesn’t know what to say this time. The sweats pooling in his equipment. The usually raucous Aces dressing room is silent. Swoops claps him on the shoulder, squeezes. Scraps pulls Swoops in for a hug, it’s quick but both of them leave with their faces a little less filled with shame. No one dares talk about next year yet, not even the coach when he tells them he’s “proud of what they managed this year.”

Kent hates the concept of “managing,” it makes it sound like it was a challenge. Winning was supposed to be easy for them. 

The hot water of the shower takes care of the sweat and blood. He’s gross in a way that the shower can’t fix. His body’s broken. No hockey player has nice feet, but his feel absolutely mangled, scabs on his ankles. His knees are bruised, his thighs are bruised, his ribs are bruised, his arms are bruised. His beard is scratchy and his moustache doesn’t grow the same way his beard does. There are bags under his eyes. What a sight he must be. 

The Aces plane is silent. The lights are off, some guys sleep, some guys watch movies, text their wives. The blue light of phone screens fills the air. Kent can’t bring himself to do anything. He can’t talk to Swoops, he can’t do much more than text Whiskey the words, “in the air.”

He gets back a, “see you soon,” followed by a, “love you,”

He switches his phone off quickly. It’s not like Swoops doesn’t know, but Whiskey still feels private. Not secret, but private. And he thinks he’d die if Carlson ever found out. 

He has so much time to think on the plane and he hates every minute of it. First he thinks that he’s a shitty captain, a good captain would have willed his team to a win. Then he thinks he’s a shitty hockey player, a good hockey player would have scored a goal. Then he thinks about how Whiskey won a championship this year and Kent wonders if he resents him for that. Then Kent thinks he’s a shitty boyfriend. 

He runs the last five minutes of the game in his head, he thinks about the empty netter they scored, he thinks about the shot he wasn’t quick enough to block, he’d have no problem adding another bruise to his shin if it meant they were playing again in two days. 

It’s the emptiest feeling in the world. He can’t tell himself he’ll try harder next game because there won’t be a next game until September. All Kent wants is a next game. 

He does the thing that everybody tells him not to do. He logs onto the plane’s wifi and googles himself. 

_ Kent Parson’s Aces blow it in 5 _

_ Kent Parson and the Aces, is the cup window closing? _

_ Is Kent Parson who he used to be? _

He can read the implication in the last one. “Would Jack Zimmermann have won?” 

He thought it would get better now that Jack’s in the league, that he could stop competing against the idea of him and start actually competing against him. But they still write articles about it, what if Zimmermann went #1? Where would the Aces be?

He sees a tweet, someone saying he’s not big enough. They’ve been saying that his whole career, it never bothers him that much. Someone in the replies calls him soft. Someone says that what the Aces need is a new captain. Kent is in the kind of headspace where he agrees with them. He reads, what must be, every single tweet. Some of them are sweet, some of them are vicious. Most of them though, are fair, and that’s what stings the most. @AcesFan78 isn’t wrong when he said “woof, wonder if Parson makes that shot the game turns out different,” @Pukebunny isn’t wrong when she said, “Is it just me or does Parson look exhausted out there? They really need to find a way to get some energy back.” He’d like to think @NHellscape isn’t wrong when they said he left it all on the ice. 

“You want a ride?” Swoops asks in a low hoarse voice as they get off the plane. 

Kent shakes his head, “M’gonna take a cab.”

“You know you’re always welcome to come over if you need. Whiskey too.”

“Yeah. I know. I’ll leave you and Kell alone for tonight.”

“Okay Parser,” Swoops says, “Don’t beat yourself up too hard.”

He walks through the airport, which is thankfully mostly empty this late at night to the street and looks down at his phone. He realizes he forgot to call an uber. He looks up again and sees Whiskey. He’s standing outside of Kent’s car, leaning against the passenger door. He jerks his head for Kent to come over. 

Kent hugs him, as hard and as tight as he wants because no one else is here waiting for a cab, it’s just the two of them. 

“I told you I’d get a cab,” Kent says, his words are muffled by Whiskey’s red polo. 

“I figured I’d save you twenty bucks.”

Kent has twenty bucks to spare. He knows that’s not why but he doesn’t have the energy to say anything about it. He’s so deeply  _ tired.  _ Too tired even to cry in the car, he just looks out the windshield, notices Whiskey looking over at him every now and then but they don’t say anything. 

Whiskey parks, he opens Kent’s door for him because Kent doesn’t realize they’d parked. He’s just sitting, staring at the blank cement of the parking garage. 

“Come upstairs?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent nods. 

He knows that Whiskey’s not scared of his emotions, he’s seen him cry before, heard him rant and yell and scream but Kent feels so bad every time. He can’t shake the feeling that he’s a burden. He doesn’t want to ask for anything. Because Whiskey’s new, he moved in fast. Everyone warned him not to rush and now he feels like they did. What if they rushed and it all comes falling down? What if Whiskey realizes that Kent’s actually a loser and he should be with a champion? What if Whiskey leaves him for… Patrice Bergeron or someone with more cups than him? Kent’s thinking too hard. 

But Whiskey knows that. 

He’s quiet in the elevator, quiet unlocking the door. He takes Kent’s hand in his and Kent thinks that he might pull away, just so he can go to bed, so Whiskey doesn’t have to see him at his most dismal, but he doesn’t. Maybe he’s too tired or maybe he knows that he needs this. Whiskey pulls Kent towards him, still holding onto his hand, he wraps his free arm around Kent’s shoulders and pulls him tight. Whiskey’s only a couple inches taller but that’s enough to surround him. 

Kent lets out a sob, a truly disgusting, guttaral noise. He cries, feels Whiskey’s shirt soaking up his tears, his snot. He’s gross. Not only is he pathetic, he’s gross. 

Why is Whiskey holding him so tight and so tender. Kent’s knees feel like they’re about to give out, but Whiskey’s holding him up. His arms are bigger than Kent’s, his everything is bigger than Kent’s. That’s another reason he’s better than Kent deserves. 

“Come sit down,” Whiskey says. 

The TV’s off. But Kent knows it was on a few hours ago. He knows that Whiskey watched him try and fail.

He wraps an arm around Kent’s waist and leads him into the living room. Kent falls down onto the couch. He hasn’t even taken his shoes off. Kit hops up onto the couch and nudges his thigh with her head. Whiskey reaches over to scratch her between the ears.

Kent’s fucked up every other relationship he’s ever been in, what’s to stop him from fucking this one up? Why does he stay? Why does he want to?

Whiskey gets up and he thinks he’s about to hear the door slam shut, that Whiskey’s finally woken up and he’s leaving him. He comes back seconds later with a box of kleenex. 

Kent blows his nose, balls up the tissue and throws it on the table. He feels Whiskey chuckle, it pulls a smile out of him that quickly falls in favour of more tears. 

He’s slid down and away from Whiskey’s chest, his head is resting on his thigh now. He never thought he’d like the way khakis look on someone as much as he likes the way they look on Whiskey. He feels Whiskey’s hands on his forehead, gently rubbing circles around his temples. 

“I’ve been trying to think of something to say,” Whiskey says, “But I keep thinking about what I’d want someone to say to me and I can’t think of anything good, but then I remember when I had that scoring slump and you told me that it’d be okay. I didn’t believe you but it was nice to hear anyway. But when you told me you loved me, that made me feel better,” he continues, “So…it’s going to be okay. And I love you no matter what, and you did so good and you went so far and I’d love you even if you didn’t.”

Kent sobs harder, buries his face in the fabric of Whiskey’s pants, Whiskey cups his cheek, gently gets him to look up. 

Kent stands up, “Don’t waste your time,” he says, cold,all of a sudden, he walks down the hallway to the bedroom. It’s not his bedroom anymore, but he doesn’t feel comfortable calling it  _ their  _ bedroom. He doesn’t want Whiskey to feel like he’s pushing for things to be  _ theirs  _ yet, even though Whiskey says stuff like that all the time. 

Whiskey doesn’t follow. He thinks about getting undressed. He slumps down to the floor instead. There’s a picture above his bed, something that he found at a flea market. It’s a photograph of the mountains, blown up, snowy. It makes him feel like maybe he can survive out here, a kid from the mountains of New York state. He keeps his cup ring in the office, which is for the best, he thinks he might throw it off the balcony if it were in his bedroom. 

The door eases open. Kent’s embarrassed, he’s angry, he’s sad. Most of all he’s ashamed, feels undeserving of what Whiskey’s giving him. 

“Don’t apologize,” Whiskey cuts him off, “You don’t need to. I know.”

That’s another thing about Whiskey. He tells him not to apologize so much, not to him at least, “it’s literally not your fault that Kit knocked over my coffee.” Kent cathces himself apologizing for apologizing. 

“Why do you care? Why are you still here? I lost! I’m a loser.”

“Kent,” Whiskey says, patiently. 

“I fucking…” he trails off, “Fuck! You won and I wasn’t even there! You won a championship because you’re a winner and I’m a loser and I lose everything and then I cry! Like a little kid. You shouldn’t have to baby me!” Kent’s yelling now, the kind of yelling that comes along with uncontrollable tears, “I’m not… I’m not soft,” Kent mutters to himself. 

Whiskey kneels down in front of him, “I never said-”

“Everyone says!” the tears are still coming, “That I’m not big enough, that the cup was a fluke, that we don’t deserve to win, that I should get traded. That I’m  _ soft  _ which everyone knows is code for little gay bitch boy.”

Whiskey moves the hair off of Kent’s forehead, cups his cheek, “You’re my little gay bitch boy,” he says with a little smile on his face and more love and affection in his eyes than Kent thinks he’s seen in anyones, except maybe when he saw Swoops ordering McDonalds for Kelli who was almost blackout drunk in the passenger seat. 

Whiskey gets a laugh out of Kent, he wipes a little bit of snot from under his nose with his sleeve, he doesn’t care that it’s a nice suit, he doesn’t have anywhere to wear it any time soon. 

“I’m soft,” Kent says, then he gestures to himself, a limp mess on the floor, crying. 

“Kent, baby,” Whiskey sighs, “Just because you don’t fight doesn’t make you soft. I watched you take a puck to the mouth and keep skating, I watched you get your wrist slashed by a skate in December and you played the rest of the season. You’re strong,” Whiskey has his hands on Kent’s shoulders. He’s got a steadying presence that Kent really really loves about him. 

“You shouldn’t have to take care of me.”

“You take care of me all the time,” Whiskey points out. 

“Because I love you,” Kent says without even thinking, “oh.”

“Yeah, studpid. I love you too.”

And Whiskey kisses him, despite the tears, brushing them away with the side of his hands. 

Whiskey helps him get to his feet, and even if he’s only standing for a second before flopping onto the bed, it feels nice to stretch. 

Kent kicks off his dress shoes and sits up, Whiskey’s next to him. He takes his suit jacket off and throws it over the back of a chair in the corner of the room. 

“Come on, we’re getting ready for bed now,” Whiskey says, “And you don’t get to sleep in your dress pants. Whiskey disappears into Kent’s closet. He comes back a few minutes later wearing a Samwell t-shirt and a pair of Kent’s Aces sweatpants, he has clothes for Kent in his hands. Kent’s only managed to unbutton his shirt and take off his belt. Whiskey doesn’t scold him, doesn’t even blink. Just eases the dress shirt off. Pulls the undershirt over Kent’s head. Kent feels his eyes catching on the bruised on his torso and arms, The worst one’s on his leg. Whiskey’s gentle as he helps him shimmy out of his pants, careful not to press against the worst of the bruise on his thigh, it’s huge, he got knocked down and went careening into the boards in Vancouver, there’s another one on his hip from where he got checked against the bench. There’s a new one on his calf. 

Whiskey sits up next to him, fingertips dancing along the bruise on his shoulder, he kisses him on the lips, slow, gently. He’s licking into Kent’s mouth and Kent lets out a low sound of satisfaction. 

He lets Kent lay down even though he’d been pretty insistent on getting ready for bed a few minutes ago. He kisses Kent’s lips, Kent closes his eyes. Whiskey kisses the scrape on his chin from where a stick caught him on Monday. He kisses the bruise on his shoulder, fingers absentmindedly running over his collarbone. Kent knows he looks awful right now, stringy hair, bruised and mangled. He’s pretty sure Whiskey can see his ribs with all the weight he’s dropped in the playoffs. Everyone drops weight in the post-season but it’s always more dramatic for Kent since he already looks so small. It’s a surprise when he feels Whiskey’s tongue over his ribs, his teeth nip just a little and then he kisses the spot where he’s nipped. 

“You’re so strong,” Whiskey says. 

Kent doesn’t say anything back. 

“So strong, and stubborn and determined,” He’s kissing Kent’s stomach now, making his way to Kent’s hipbones. His hand smooths over the bruise there. 

“You keep going, no matter what. No matter what you just kept going.”

Kent knows he’s not just talking about hockey now.

“And you deserve good things and you deserve nice things because you have such a big heart,” He’s kissing his thigh now. His hands are featherlight over the yellowing edges of the bruise. 

“I love you like crazy,” he whispers. 

Kent lays there with his head on the pillow. He can’t tell if the tears streaming down his face are happy or sad. He thinks it’s pretty sad that someone treating him this well makes him weepy, but he has a smile on his face. 

They’re both too tired for sex or anything resembling it but Whiskey keeps trailing kisses along his body, reverently running hands over skin. Kent’s hands find their way to Whiskey’s hair. It’s always so smooth, straight, gelled into place. Kent takes great pleasure in being the only one allowed to mess it up. 

Whiskey kisses every part of him. The spot between his neck and his shoulder that always feels stiff. He kisses his hands, the little scars around his knuckles. Kisses the inside of his wrist where the skate had cut him in December. 

“You’re strong,” he mumbles again, “My boyfriend coming back from the worst injury I can imagine and you’re still strong.”

He kisses his shoulder, hands running up and down Kent’s side. 

“I love you no matter what,” Whiskey looks up at him, Kent looks down at his big brown eyes, warm and comforting and so full of love, “if you come back stronger next year, if you don’t make the playoffs, if you decide you want to have an early retirement and disappear into the mountains, I love you no matter what.”

And Kent’s still crying, he wipes away the tears. 

Whiskey slides up next to him, rolls over onto his side, “What’s wrong?”

“If I tell you that I don’t feel like I deserve someone who’s so nice to me are you gonna think I’m sad?”

“ _ You’re  _ not sad, but the fact that you feel like that is,” Whiskey says, he kisses him behind the ear. 

Kent lets out a shaky breath that turns into a laugh. 

“I love you, baby,” Whiskey says.

“I love you too,” Kent says, he doesn’t even have to think twice before he says it and that’s nice. Sometimes he questions Whiskey, how could he love him back, why does he love him back? But he’s never questioned his own love. And Whiskey’s looking at him with the same sureness that he looks at Whiskey with and sometimes he feels like one day whiskey’s going to wake up and realize that Kent’s actually been a piece of shit all along because Kent is, he’s certain that he is because that’s why Jack… 

He’s panicking, he can feel his breath catching in his throat, his heart beating faster, his hands grasp for the sheets but he finds Whiskey’s hand instead. He squeezes hard. 

“You’re okay,” Whiskey whispers, his free had comes up to stroke Kent’s hair, “I’m here. You’re here, Kit’s probably puking in the kitchen,” he’s smiling and for some reason that’s what brings Kent back. 

His own laugh surprises him, even though it quickly turns to more tears. Whiskey stands up, hands him the pajamas and a hoodie.

“I’ll be right back,” he kisses him on the cheek. 

He puts on the pants first, then the hoodie. He realizes that it smells like Whiskey before he sees the SMH logo on it. It’s a size bigger than he’d wear for himself which means that he gets lost in it easily, letting the sleeves swallow his hands, pulling the hood up over his messy hair so he can hide in it. 

Whiskey walks back into the bedroom holding a plate of food in one hand and Kit under his other arm. She is as bitchy as a cat can possibly be but for some reason she never hisses when Whiskey picks her up. 

“I decided you need to eat,” Whiskey says. 

“I had a protein shake on the plane,” he says, “I hit my calorie intake for the day.”

“Well, you’re hungry, so…” Whiskey trails off, holds the food out, Kit jumps out of his arm and onto the bed. 

Whiskey made him a bacon grilled cheese. There’s ketchup on the plate. It’s all empty calories, really. His nutritionist would hate it. It somehow means more to him that Whiskey had to stand over the stove and cook this, that he didn’t just throw one of his pre-made meals into the microwave. He looked at Kent, sad and crying and thought, “I’m making this sad sonofabitch a grilled cheese sandwich,” and then he did. 

“Also,” Whiskey reaches into his pocket and pulls something out, “I found these in the back of the fridge.” Kent likes that he calls it “the” fridge, not “your fridge.”

“Those are from when my niece came to visit like months ago.”

“Capri suns don’t go bad, too many chemicals.”

He rips the straw off the package and stabs it through the hole, he hands it to Kent. 

“Please eat,” Whiskey’s voice is small as he sits on the edge of the bed next to Kent. 

Kent nods. It takes him a minute, looking at the sandwich in front of him, to decide he does actually want to put that in his mouth. In the meantime, Whiskey’s picked up the remote and turned on his TV, he opens Netflix and hits play on a movie. 

“Why are we watching Cars?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey shrugs, “It’s a good movie.”

Kent shrugs along with him. Kit curls up in between their legs. 

Kent picks at his grilled cheese, lets the routine of his diet plan be thrown for today. And the capri sun tastes really good. He rests his head on Whiskey’s shoulder, feeds him a bite of his crust, Whiskey opens his mouth without being prompted and swallows it. Kent eats his grilled cheese by tearing the crusts off and eating those first, then eating the halves of his sandwich. 

He does feel better after he eats, realizes that his diet plan doesn’t take into account three hours of crying on the “calories burned” side of things. 

Whiskey has his arm around Kent, he traces circles on his shoulder and Kent feels a lot more peaceful than he did an hour ago. Watching a kids’ movie with his boyfriend, drinking juice out of a pouch, his cat curled up between them. It’s good. 

“You really think you did something picking this movie, huh?” Kent narrows his eyes at Whiskey. 

“It  _ is  _ just an empty cup,” Whiskey smirks and kisses Kent on the cheek. 

It’s an empty cup that matters to both of them, and they know it. But there are other things that matter more now. 

**Author's Note:**

> I Love Them
> 
> I felt like maybe some people might have been wondering if Kent won after Whiskey got to Vegas and uh... no because I like making things hard. Also writing from Kent's perspective isn't something I did very often with the first work so I wanted to do some of that. Poor boy is really hard on himself, but it was really bad here because y'know... Stanley cup
> 
> yell at me on tumblr omg-whiskey


End file.
